


In This Body Bleed

by literaryspell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coercion, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Incest, M/M, Non Consensual, Parent/Child Incest, possession/body snatching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b> <i>"Do you remember when you broke into my thoughts, when you got a glimpse of all you wished you hadn’t?" Snape's words in Al's voice seemed almost fond. "And there you were, weak and full of hate, on all fours in my office. Do you recall?"<br/></i></p>
<p>Written to this prompt: <i>Albus Severus is the reincarnation of Severus Snape; Harry discovers a very problematic crush on his own son.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Body Bleed

**zero**  
As Ginny slept, recovering from a seven-hour labour, Harry sat beside Albus Severus' bassinette. The infant had been deemed in perfect health, and the doctor had reassured them that his not crying was not an indication of anything gone wrong. Though James had whimpered incessantly and all Weasley young were notoriously vocal, Al was silent. Though Harry knew Al couldn’t see through his dark blue eyes yet, it was as though he was observing everything. It unnerved Harry, even more so when his eyes lost the milkiness and turned as green as Harry's. He was looking into his own eyes, but everything behind them was unfamiliar.

Still, Harry was content. He'd been gifted another son and already he felt an intense attachment. While James took after Ginny, he couldn’t help but think that little Al would be all his. He'd never felt so whole in his life. 

**four**  
"Al, no!"

Harry looked up from his breakfast, alarmed at the sharp tone of Ginny's voice. He listened, hearing Albus Severus talking in his high but articulate voice.

"I don't like this one."

"It wasn’t yours, it was James'," Ginny said, sounding distressed.

Harry got up and entered the boys' bedroom. "Everything all right?" he asked, looking down at Al.

Ginny sighed and threw a hand up. Al was sitting cross-legged and was surrounded by pages torn out of a picture book. Harry had bought it for James when he'd been a toddler. It was a story of a dog that had discovered he could talk, though none of the dogs around him could. It ended with the dog finding other talking dogs—Harry had thought it would help James understand what it was like to be magical in a world mostly Muggle. He'd also used it to show James the sort of form Harry's godfather could once take.

Harry frowned at Al. "Did you do that? Did you rip James' book?"

Al nodded, unremorseful. "I didn't like it," he repeated.

"It wasn’t yours," Harry chided.

"I have to go to practice," Ginny said. She crossed the floor and kissed Harry lightly on the lips. "I'll be home early today."

"All right, love." Once she left, Harry rested on his haunches beside Al, who was glaring but looked uncertain. "Why did rip the book when you knew it wasn’t yours?"

Al was quiet for a long time before he turned and pressed himself against Harry, looking to be held. "I didn't mean to rip it," he said, his voice quavering.

"It was an accident?" Harry was torn. Al was a good boy, clever and obedient and he usually kept to himself. He didn’t get along with his brother too well but it was their ages, Harry knew. He didn’t want to punish Al but he knew he should.

Al nodded and buried his head into Harry's shoulder. 

"Don't do that again, Al, I'm serious. Don't break things, especially things that aren't yours. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Daddy," Al whispered.

**eleven**  
"Harry, don't forget you have to pick up the boys from nine-and-three-quarters this afternoon. Ron's picking Lily up from dayschool and she'll probably stay overnight there. I have a game and won't be home until later."

"I know, love." Harry kissed Ginny's proffered cheek and picked up her equipment bag, helping her slide it over her shoulder. "Good luck."

"Never need it," she said with a smile before stepping through the Floo.

Harry's eyes remained on the hearth long after Ginny had left. Normally he would go to her games, even bringing the children if possible, but it was the last day of school at Hogwarts and Al and James would be too excited at the prospect of doing nothing all summer to sit still.

He had mixed feelings about the boys coming home. He was thrilled to see them; it felt like ages had passed and he hoped they hadn’t sprouted up too much, it wasn’t good for his heart to see them grow so fast. But over the years he felt he'd lost his hold on Al. He'd become more reserved, withdrawn; Harry had a hard time getting him to leave his room. He was a brilliant student and always had his nose in books or filled with potions fumes from his student set. He didn't like going to Ginny's games or visiting Hermione and Ron or any other family members. It was difficult at times to relate to him at all.

*

After picking up his sons, Harry took them out for a dinner at James' favourite Muggle place in London. Al had been surly and sullen the entire time, glaring about them and speaking only in terse response to Harry's inquiries. James' energy more than made up for it and the only silence was when James went to the loo. Harry had asked about Al's grades, and Al had smiled strangely, a smile Harry had never seen before, not on Al. Then he'd answered, "My grades are satisfactory." Hearing Al's eleven-year-old voice with such stilted self-assurance made Harry uncomfortable. He nodded and waited for James to return.

After they'd returned home, Al had gone straight to his bedroom. Harry and James sat at the table, waiting for Ginny to return, and talking about James' school year. After a while, the subject turned to Al.

"He's kind of odd," James admitted, glancing at the stairs.

"He's just a little quiet, James. You should, maybe, reach out to him a bit more?" Harry didn’t want to admit he didn’t know much about the dynamics of the relationship between his sons.

James sighed and leaned back in his chair. Harry admired his oldest son's easy confidence and low-key charm. It was the same way he liked to remember his own father.

"I try," said James. "I really do, or at least I used to. He can be…" James trailed off, his brow furrowed. He laughed nervously. "Well, he can be right _mean_."

Harry opened his mouth to object—Al was just going through a hard time, he was introverted, he was too clever for his own good—but the Floo sounded and Ginny strode into the room with ruddy cheeks and a huge grin. She held out her arms to James, who rolled his eyes at Harry but looked pleased to see his mum nonetheless.

*

Ginny slept beside Harry, her body warm and solid, something he'd experienced intimately moments before. He envied her ability to fall asleep so quickly, but it was her gentle breaths, in and out, that often lulled him to sleep.

He knew Al was still awake because he'd heard low-grade potions spells: keeping a cauldron boiling consistently, a stirring spell, measuring charms. All in a low susurration, meant to remain beyond hearing.

Harry got up and slipped on his pyjamas. Maybe part of the reason Al was distant was because he rarely got alone time with either of his parents, though he had only to ask. Harry knew he wouldn’t, so he approached Al's bedroom door and knocked softly.

When there was no response, he opened the door and took a half-step inside. "Al, can we—"

Al, seated at his long desk, jerked around to face Harry. Multiple potions in various stages of completion all froze, mixers in midair, fires paused in their burning—all without a word of spell.

It was magic beyond anything Harry could consciously do.

" _Get out,_ Al bit out, his eyes narrowed at his father.

Harry stepped back out of the room without thinking. He shut the door with gentle tug and waited, but no further sound came from within.

He put a hand over his stomach, feeling ill: sometimes he wondered if Al _hated_ him.

**fourteen**  
Harry retired to bed after dinner, pleading a headache. He couldn’t be in the room with Al any longer that day. The chasm in their relationship had only deepened until it was as though Al wasn’t his son at all. When he spoke to Harry, it was in cruel riddle or, when they were alone, imaginatively subtle insults. He begged Ginny to pay deeper attention to Al's words, but she didn’t see them as Harry did. She couldn’t—she didn’t have the experience he did. She couldn’t know they weren’t Al's words at all.

The question was _how_? How could Al channel someone who'd died before he was born? Harry had inquired at Hogwarts whether Al had been in contact with the portraits, but McGonagall had informed him that Al had only seen the portraits once, during his orientation to the school. 

And furthermore, she'd said at Harry's unsubtle pressing, Severus Snape had not had a portrait made before his death.

So where was Al picking up on Snape's mannerisms, his very personality? A notebook? Had Snape turned ghostly? 

But what could explain Al's eyes, their cold depth, their intrusive calculation?

Most confusing of all, sickest of all, was the way Al's behaviour made him recall the way Snape had made him feel. Furious, victimized, hunted. Confused. Angry at himself, at Snape. 

"Fuck," Harry whispered aloud. He readjusted his penis inside his pants, his hand closing around it as he remembered. Snape had been the worst kind of bastard, but Harry had been drawn to him, desperate to make him react, for reasons he didn’t try examining until years after Snape had died.

Closing his eyes to the enigma of his son and the painful memories of the man he seemed to emulate, Harry stroked his cock with familiar intensity, determined to get off and get his focus back. Instead of the tried and true miasma of imagery he depended on to reach climax quickly, all Harry could hear, or rather remember, was the sound of Snape's voice, the hatred in his stare, the emptiness inside him, his dearth of pity, his lifeless body. He frowned but powered through the reminiscences, his prick responding to the action of his hand and not the direction of his thoughts.

It was wrong, Harry knew, that he would be attracted to someone who'd hated him. What did that say about him—was he so mired in self-loathing that he chose Snape because the loathing was equal? Or was it a challenge: to make the man who hated him most want him? To prove he was worth wanting?

Harry was close; he reached over to grab tissue from Ginny's nightstand and his eyes fell on the open door—how had he not heard it, or sensed it?—and the body blocking most of the light.

"Shit, Al!" Harry moved to arrange the covers so his actions were hidden, but the twist in his gut told him Al knew what he'd been doing.

"Feeling better?" Al asked, a smirk on the lips he'd inherited from his mother.

Harry choked on a cough and nodded.

"Hm." Al stood, arms crossed over his chest, and stared his father down. 

"Did you need something?" Harry asked, disturbed at Al's attitude.

Al snorted and left the doorway. Moments later his own door shut behind him, and as Harry listened, humiliated and unsatisfied, the sounds of Al's potion-making carried into the room.

Clinking and bubbling.

**seventeen**  
"Al, stop it!" Lily's cry reached Harry even before he'd left the fire of the Floo. He ran to the sound, through the kitchen and into the sitting room.

Lily was pulling at Al's shoulders, but Harry's slender son stood firm, his wand aimed without tremble at James' body, which was held stiff a half-meter in the air, upside down. Al flicked his wand and James shook terribly, his head snapping back and forth. 

"Lily, go upstairs. Go!" Harry drew his own wand. He saw James' lying on the floor out of reach. "Al, put him down! What are you thinking?"

"Daa-ad," James choked out. His face was vermillion but he seemed to be laughing. "Al's a f-fucking f—"

A violent snap of Al's wand had James slamming back and forth in mid-air. 

"Albus Severus, stop this right now," Harry growled, his wand aimed at Al.

At the sound of his name, Al finally turned. His cheeks were flushed and stained with old tears. But his eyes were hard. He lowered his wand in an abrupt motion, and James tumbled to the floor, coughing and trying to catch his breath.

"What on earth—" Harry began.

"Don't speak to me," Al snapped. He left the room, jerking his arm away from Harry's outstretched hand as he passed.

Harry sheathed his wand and scrubbed at his face with his hands. "What happened?" he asked James, hating how resigned he sounded.

James had recovered but remained on the floor, his back against a sofa. He chuckled and shrugged. "He's mad! Flies off the broom at any little thing."

"What little thing was it this time?"

More serious now, James sighed. "Look, I'm only telling you 'cause I know he never will. He's out of here the second he's done at Hogwarts, you have to know that. I don't even think he'll ever want to see us again."

Harry dropped his weary body into an armchair and closed his eyes. "He said that?"

"No, that's just my opinion. That's not why he's so upset. My mate's little brother caught him, you know, with someone."

Harry was shocked—Al had never expressed even a passing interest in another person, even rolling his eyes and leaving the table when Harry and Ginny had attempted 'the talk'.

"Who?" he whispered, curious about his distant son.

"A _professor_ ," James said, his eyes wide. "A bloke." He shuddered. "If it were still in school I'd've kicked some arse, and I came back as soon as I heard."

Harry didn’t know what to take in first. His son was gay? Did that explain anything? His lack of attachment to them, his constant withdrawal? Harry didn’t think so. They were understanding parents, which he would have learned if he'd stayed for the talk they'd tried to have. Someone older—an affair? Was Al being taken advantage of? Though it was hard to imagine, it was possible. A professor had authority over Al, and Al's grades were paramount to him. Harry had a horrible thought—was Al being blackmailed?

Harry spoke without thinking, his mind branching off in other directions. "Go back to your flat, James, and take your sister with you. I need to talk with Al alone. And don't say anything to anyone, let me tell your mum."

James nodded and stood. "Er, if it's any consolation, and I can't believe I'm saying this, Al was, you know, the top. The fucker."

"Oh, my god, James," Harry said with a tortured groan. "Go!"

After Harry reassured Lily that it had just been a brotherly tiff, they left. Ginny was at work and wouldn’t be home until the late evening. He debated over sending an owl to find her but ultimately decided he wanted to talk to Al alone first.

He went to the sidebar and poured himself a restorative glass of firewhisky. It was his usual method of preparation when dealing with serious matters within his family. He'd never forget being half-drunk and trying to explain to Lily about her period. Now he kept to one drink.

After nursing it longer than strictly necessary, Harry ascended the stairs and knocked on Al's door. There was no response, but there never had been. When he tried the knob it was locked, and Harry opened it easily with a spell, sad that his son had locked him out.

"Coming in," he said as a warning. He opened the door and felt his heart clench at the sight of his son curled on his side on his single bed, not looking at Harry but staring blankly at a wall.

Harry was struck with an overwhelming sadness. He didn’t know his son at all, or why his son didn’t want him to.

"Al, you know we love you, right? And you can tell us, can tell me anything."

Al said nothing for a long time,and then cleared his throat. "I heard what James told you."

Harry nodded. He went to sit on Al's desk chair but it had been demolished into a pile of splinters. God, but his son was powerful. "Can I sit?" he asked, indicating a spot on the bed.

"Fine." He sniffed loudly and sat up.

"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. Just tell me… did… were you forced?"

Al scoffed. "Only in a manner of speaking."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he had something I wanted, and luckily enough, I had something he wanted."

Harry frowned. The nonchalant tone created a dissonance with the almost feverish look in Al's eyes. 

"What was it? Couldn’t I have got it for you?" At his words, the unbidden image of Al repaying him as he had his professor struck Harry dumb, and he struggled to banish it. "I mean, bought it for you?"

"It is not something that can be bought," Al said quietly.

Harry wanted to fill the silence with fatherly advice, with questions, with demands, but he couldn’t. In some ways, Al didn’t feel like his son at all, but rather, a stranger. Or worse, someone terribly familiar.

Not sure how to approach the topics of his son possibly being gay or using sex as a commodity to be traded, Harry avoided them. His next words slipped out without permission.

"How much do you know of your second namesake? Of Severus Snape?"

Harry watched, his stomach sinking, as a shield seemed to pass over Al's features. His face was emotionless, but not neutral. He was hiding something.

"Only what you told me."

Harry sighed. "Al, talk to me, you don't have to be afraid—"

Al's voice rose sharply. "I am _not_ —" He cut himself off, staring at Harry. "I am no coward."

"I never said," Harry began. Then his mind seemed to break. Horror turned his chest to ice, and at once realization flooded him. "I never said…"

A cold laugh penetrated Harry's ears, muffled by the pounding of his blood. He felt dizzy, ill.

"Dad," Al said, leaning forward. He pushed at Harry's arm. "Daddy, what's wrong?" His voice was a mockery of concern, a snakelike grin darkening his face.

*

The last time Harry could remember Al as himself was when he was six years old. Teddy Lupin had come over for tea and was regaling James with tales, told to him by Harry, of his parents.

"Did you hear that, Al?" James had asked, thrilled. "Teddy's dad was a _werewolf_!" 

Al had been walking by and didn’t stop, but James had begun barking and howling like a wolf, and Al froze. He had started shaking, something Harry could see from halfway across the room. His face had been torn between confusion and anger, and anger had won; he'd attacked his brother, swinging his skinny arms wildly and screaming.

Harry had pulled him off and carried him to his room, holding him until he calmed down.

Al had said, "I don't know why I was so angry, Daddy. I didn’t want to be."

Now, looking into Al's eyes yielded nothing but spiteful mirth. 

"Remember me, Daddy? Don't you wish you'd saved me?"

"What…?"

Al heaved an exasperated sigh. He grabbed the front of Harry's shirt and hauled him close. Harry wanted to recoil but felt frozen.

"Look at me," Al whispered. "Really look." 

_"Look… at… me."_

Harry did. The flood that assaulted him wasn’t just images of a life that was _not_ Al's—it was smells and sounds and feelings entirely unfamiliar, things that should have been just as unfamiliar to Al. The strike of a blow from a father that was not Harry; the feel of a wand that was not Al's; flashes of people who had died before Al had been born, painted darkly by memory. Lupin, with teeth bared. Sirius, cackling madly. Harry's own father, face twisted in hate. Harry's mother, bathed in soft light.

Harry jerked back, trying to break the spell.

"No," Al snapped. "I've had to endure it, you will as well."

Memories of a life that should have ended, mixed and melded with the life Harry had tried to give his son. Sparks of Al's hands mixing potions, a thousand times or more; it was all potions…

Finally, Al released him. He looked grim but satisfied.

"The potions," Harry choked out. "What are you doing?"

"That doesn’t matter," Al said. "What matters is that you now know the truth. What will you do with it?"

Harry's mouth opened and closed. He didn’t know how to react, what he could do. Could he ever have his son back? Had he ever really had Al at all?

"Oh, he's in here," Al said, seeming to pick up on Harry's thought. "Not very strong, though. Not anymore."

Harry choked on a sob. "What have you done to him, to us?"

"Oh, Potter, don't make this about you. I'll give you your son back. Once I'm done with him."

"What? When? What do you mean?"

Al rolled his eyes. "I see you haven’t gained articulation over the years. Once I am finished with my work, he will be yours again."

"Then… where will you go?"

Al chuckled and patted Harry's cheek. "So concerned about your old professor, aren’t you? Don't worry, Potter, I won't leave you if you don't want me to."

"What do you want from me?" Harry whispered. He could hardly hold himself up.

"Feeling a little weak? I take it you partook in your little tradition of Firewhisky before coming up for a serious discussion?" Al laughed. 

Nodding dumbly, Harry realised for the first time that part of what he was feeling was not just shock. He couldn’t seem to move much, and Al's words all echoed inside his head.

"It was just a little something to help you accept things more easily. You are very unpredictable, Potter. I couldn’t risk my work." He swept his hand toward his potions desk.

"Need to… lie down."

"No, no, Potter, I need you awake. You want your son back, don't you?"

Harry's eyes welled and tears spilled over. "Yes," he whispered.

Al touched his face again. "Then just relax." Then Al's lips touched Harry's.

Harry tried to reel back, wanted to vomit, but Al's grip was secure. He mashed his lips against Harry's before pulling back in frustration.

"Do you not understand?" Al growled. "This needs to happen. Or so help me, I will end your son's life without a blink, do you hear me, Potter? I'd rather die than go on a Potter brat."

"Please," Harry said. "You're my _son_."

Al grinned. "No. I'm not." 

Harry watched with horror as Al stood and slipped out of his robes. He had a strange grace even though his teenage body was gangly. Harry shut his eyes against the sight of his son, naked and hard, in front of him.

"It's okay, Daddy," Al cooed. "You just have to let me inside you. Then it will all be over." He touched Harry's hair. "Like a bad dream."

"Don't… call me that," Harry protested. He didn’t stop Al from pulling him to his feet, from unbuttoning his robes and tossing them aside. A sob caught in his throat when Al pulled his pants down and then pushed him back onto the bed, even swinging his legs up for him.

"The great Harry Potter," Al said, a touch of reverence in his voice. "The greatest wizard alive."

"I'm not…"

"I know." Al laughed. "Maybe the luckiest. Or the most foolish. Powerful still, though." 

Al straddled Harry's shins, his bollocks brushing Harry's leg. His gorge rose. Al's hand closed perfunctorily over Harry's soft cock, stroking him with methodical precision. Despite the experienced ministrations, Harry remained flaccid.

"Potter. Listen to me, don't open your eyes."

Harry turned his face to the wall. He could only think of getting his son back. He felt like he'd lost his mind.

"Do you remember, all those years ago, when I attempted to teach you Occlumency?"

Harry didn’t respond. He remembered all too well. The feelings of inadequacy, of fury and frustration, of wanting to do well just to show Snape he could.

"Do you remember when you broke into my thoughts, when you got a glimpse of all you wished you hadn’t?" Al's voice took on an almost fond tone. "And there you were, weak and full of hate, on all fours in my office. Do you recall?"

"Yes."

Al touched Harry's thigh, stroking in long, even movements. "I wanted to fuck you desperately, then. I wanted to tear your robes off, to shove your face against the stone floor and violate you so brutally you'd have to beg me to heal you." His hand moved to Harry's cock, teasing now. "I wanted to bind you and fuck your belligerent little mouth until you choked on my cock."

Harry couldn’t help it—he imagined it. Had he wanted that? Not at the time. If Snape had done what Al was suggesting, Harry would have vowed to kill him and probably would have done so. Now, Al's words inspired in him a forbidden longing. For what he only half knew. For punishment, for reparation, for absolution.

When Al began stroking Harry's cock for the second time, it was on its way to being hard. The touch inspired multiple emotions, none of which Harry could understand. He hated Snape, he missed his son, he wanted Snape, he wanted his son back…

"That's it," Al encouraged. "We have to both enjoy this."

Inexplicably, Harry felt a brief rush of excitement. He'd only ever been with Ginny. He'd had urges, especially about certain men, but he'd never acted, never so much as imagined. He couldn’t feel guilty for cheating because he was bringing Ginny's son back to them both. He had to believe that Al was telling the truth. He couldn’t even acknowledge the possibility that it was all a lie, a trick to humiliate Harry or something more sinister. His mind would fracture permanently without something to strive toward. Al.

"Open your legs," Al instructed, assisting Harry in the action. He then manoeuvred Harry's legs to bend at the knees, spreading them farther still. Al arranged himself between Harry's legs. Harry could only feel Al's actions; his eyes were trained on the wall. Al rooted around for something and when Harry heard a cap snap open, he knew it was lubrication.

He shut out the rush of thoughts-- _oh, god, it's your son, it's your beautiful baby boy_ \--and focused on the physical. It wasn’t Al. It was Snape.

Clinical fingers probed at Harry's exposed arsehole, and Harry almost jumped at the intrusion. "Fuck," he groaned. The fingers were uncomfortable, even as thin as they were. Harry's body just didn’t seem to want them in him. They pressed deeper and once in and stationary the sensation wasn’t as bad. Al drew his fingers in and out, twisting and spreading them until at last he withdrew them. Harry heard the lube cap again and attempted not to scream.

"Not very thick, is he? Young yet, I suppose." Al shifted forward, one arm braced on the bed beside Harry's face. 

Harry looked at the arm. Tan, with faded freckles. A burn scar from an overzealous potion. In his mind he saw a Dark Mark there.

Al pressed Harry's knees back, closer to his chest, and without warning penetrated Harry fully. Harry shouted and his hands shot out to throw Al off, but the pain receded and Harry's movements had brought his face toward Al's.

"No, no, no," Harry muttered, closing his eyes again. He'd never be able to escape, to unsee, his son poised above him, fucking him.

"Unfortunately, this is still the body of a youth. I do not expect to last long."

"Stop talking," Harry bit out.

"You need to orgasm," Al said, ignoring him. "It's part of the magic. It needs to be mutual or it will not take."

Harry reached for his cock and worked at it, his movements akin to violence. He tried not to think of the cock piercing his ass, of his son's cock, of his son's come about to be inside him. Of his son panting above him, of Snape loving every horrible moment of Harry's pain.

"That's right, Potter, finish yourself for me."

He did, he came, and it was for Snape. He shook as his climax stole through. He'd never felt its like, so terrible and so longed-for. It was for his son.

"You're so good to your son, Daddy," Al said in that sickening voice. "So good to your baby. You love me, don't you, Daddy?" Al fucked away harder, grabbed Harry's leg behind the knee and pressed it hard against Harry's chest. "Say you love me, Daddy, god, you feel so good, so dirty, Daddy."

Harry sobbed, pressing his face against his son's arm, wishing he could Obliviate himself, wishing he could die.

Al finally came, and Harry swore he could feel it inside him, feel the magic Al had spoken of taking hold. Whatever it would do, Harry hoped he could move past what he'd done, everything he'd done…

*

When Snape awoke, he at once noticed his lack of youth. He was no longer a teenager, that much was certain. Yet he was not the age he'd been at his death. No, that body was gone forever.

He felt the familiar sensation of come deep in his arse—he'd used Al's body to great advantage, though he'd never sullied his own body in such a way. He glanced down the bed and saw Albus Severus Potter draped over his legs.

Snape rubbed his forehead, fingertips dipping minutely into the scar there. 

Harry Potter. The riches he now owned, the secrets he knew, the people accessible to him, the doors opened… all in exchange for a quiet voice in the back of his head.

He brushed his hand through Albus Severus' hair—through his son's hair. Albus Severus would awake as if from a long dream, a comatose state. He'd be confused by his father's advances, but not disgusted. Snape hadn't spent Al's teenage years fucking older men for nothing. And the attraction Snape had felt in Al's body toward Harry would carry over, as it had been a deep part of Albus Severus' socialization. It would linger.

He could feel Potter, deep inside his mind. Potter, full of shame and despair. Potter who would have to witness, silent and aware, every last thing Snape did in his body. He would feel everything but stop nothing. It was a most beautiful revenge.

His cock stirred, swelling impressively. Finally, a tool he could work with. He brushed it against Albus Severus' lips—perhaps he could ejaculate between those pretty lips before the boy came to.

And then he'd tell Ginny their son was himself again. James and Lily would come home; the family would be reunited.

Snape would have to take Lily aside, to her room, to explain things in a fatherly manner.

She looked so very much like her grandmother had at her age.


End file.
